Monday, July 14, 2008

Earlier we at UB issued a broadside to Sharon Mesmer--who we deemed to be a novice appreciator of the glorious Unicorn Boner. But we are happy to report that she is a full fledged veteran of Unicorn Bonerdom. Check it:

An excerpt from her poem

A UNICORN BONER FOR HUMANITY

..."Every day I feel a little horny"is clearly a nod to the unicorn boner --solidarity with all things happyand fluffyand horny.

As pink, as new, and as loudas a moist newborn Unicorn boner.And when you follow your moist newborn unicorn bonerboners will occurwhere you would not have thought there were boners,and where there wouldn't be boners for anyone else...

She is the motherfucking John McCain of Unicorn Boners, if Jon McCain weren't such a pussy, and Unicorn Boners were like torture and if they had fathered an illegitimate black baby--Barack Obama.

So to be clear: Sharon Mesmer is awesome, loves Unicorn Boners, and John McCain is Barack Obama's father. And Barack Obama is black.

Wednesday, July 9, 2008

We at Unicorn Boners have been silent on this issue long enough. In New York City we have a radio show known as The Takeaway, sponsored by PRI, WNYC, The New York Times and all other manner of fellow-traveler commie-islamo-terror-fascist organizations. With that kind of backing you might think they could manage to not ruin our morning. But you would be retardedly wrong for thinking so.

The format is simple, live, morning drive, with two hosts: John Hockenberry and Adaora Udoji.

John Hockenberry is a paraplegic so we'll leave him out of this. Even Unicorn Boners couldn't make his lower half work again. And besides, he's actually not that bad, though the science segments are a bit dropped in with the news items of the day. I mean really, how often can you bring the guy from the Hayden planetarium in to chat before it turns into a D&D game?

But the other host, Adaora Udoji, is the most insanely stupid person I have ever heard speak. And I'm from Connecticut, birth place of mealy-mouthed, Benji of the Oval Office George W Bush. Let's look past the self-described "Howard Stern of public radio" label. I'll even look past the way she fumbles every word as if some smarter person living inside of her were trying to climb out her throat.

What must be addressed are the stupid questions, followed by stupid follow-ups, followed then (with a brain-meltingly knowing tone) by the begging of clarification on something that needs no clarification. "But, is the sky really blue?" "Am I an idiot?" "Is this a microphone or a practice phallus?"

Waking to this is like having a drunken one night stand, only to then realize in the sober morning, that it wasn't just a lazy eye she had, but rather she had been burned about the face with the devils jism, (which resembles herpes, a bad sunburn, and seborrhea) and she's your cousin. The ugly one.

Please make it stop. I'll agree to get Chinese finger-trapped by Leonard Lopate and Brian Lehrer if I can get Morning Edition back.

Monday, June 30, 2008

Gold star for the day goes to Unicorn Boner fanatic Pookie. He found an elusive Unicorn sandwich stand.

The magic of Unicorns cannot be reserved only for their Boners and flying and whatnot. They can also live solely by eating their own 100% real Kraft Unicorn spunk--selling the excess to us lowly humans for a tidy profit. It whitens teeth and build strong healthy bones too. Amazing!

Monday, June 23, 2008

We at UB are now accepting submissions to our annual/weekly/daily Unicorn Boner Picture competition.

While we prefer the photographic arts, (Man Ray had a Boner for Unicorns, Cellos and naked women--in that order), we fully understand the elusive quality of these fine creatures, and their equally elusive and fine Boners. And so will also accept hand drawn, painted (either watercolor or oil), stenciled, finger-painted, collaged, sculpted, and velveted submissions.

Sunday, June 22, 2008

Well, Sharon Mesmer, until you've flung yourself down the glorious shaft of the magical-type beast that defies description like the pole of your local volunteer Fire Dept., as if the abandoned mill down by the river (the one where the lovable, ragamuffin runaways from troubled, yet ultimately ennobling circumstances sleep--along side a box full of mewing kittens) is burning, you should perhaps not speak of such things.

We are professionals here. We'll leave erotic poetry to people who don't require "companionship," who enjoy curling up with a good book, and who aren't afraid of paper cuts in private places.